


In the Bleak Midwinter

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Christmas, Friendship is Magic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Monster Jon - Freeform, Muslim Character, Pre-Season/Series 04, Terrible Family Relationships, found family (if you squint), peter lukas is a creepo, possibly literally magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 18:00:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17166659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: “Ahem! It’s not like it’s my fault they’re all depressed and miserable. I’m just enjoying the side effects.”“And occasionally devouring one or two whole,” Jon added, and Peter merely shrugged, as if to say,can you blame me?A late submission to the Piles of Nonsense Holiday Cheer Event.





	In the Bleak Midwinter

The Magnus Institute was largely closed for the last week or so of the calendar year, in observance of Christmas and New Year’s. Jon wasn’t sure now whether that was more of a frustration or a comfort. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t still be there: the Archives must have their Archivist, he understood that now. But they would be long, quiet days alone down there, without even the chance of a request from Research to interrupt him, and he wasn’t sure if he was quite ready for that much time alone.

Since he’d returned from the Unknowing, properly returned from it, he’d become more aware than ever of where his humanity was fraying, where it had already been burnt away. He needed less sleep, and when he did sleep he was plunged almost immediately into other people’s nightmares. He ate less, much to Martin’s consternation, and while he couldn’t shake the routine of lighting a cigarette now and then, there was no rush from the nicotine, and no real burn from the smoke. He hungered for less tangible things, now, and when he got them—

Anchors, Georgie had told him, he needed anchors. Work was an anchor, of a sort, the mundane and repetitive parts that reminded him he was _an_ archivist as well as _the_ Archivist. And the people he worked with – well. They were a sort of anchor too, even if he couldn’t bring himself to talk about anything not work-related with them, and even then he tended to lose his nerve and divert to e-mail and texts. They didn’t seem to know what to make of him, any more than he knew what to make of himself, and he didn’t want to cross any lines. He had already caused them enough grief by mere association.

Speaking of the others. The sound of their voices from outside his office was soft, almost imperceptible, blending in with the turning of pages and the scratching of his pen. He should’ve had no.trouble ignoring it. A normal human being would’ve had little trouble ignoring it.

Jon wasn’t human, though, and it was easy to just let his attention...drift, a bit.

“Any plans for the, erm, the break?” Martin was asking, in an oddly stilted way that almost certainly meant he was talking to Basira.

“Hmm, not in particular,” she asked, confirming Jon’s suspicion. “My mum usually makes a big family dinner, since no one’s working, and then maybe we all go to the cinema together.”

“That...sounds nice?”

Basira made an indeterminate noise. “Depends. Got a couple of elderly relatives who’ll be pleased I’ve quit the Met, since it’ll give them more time to nag me about being single.”

“Oh,” Martin said in a small voice. “Yeah, that does sound...intense.”

“What about you?” Basira asked briskly. “Any plans?”

“Going to visit my mum,” Martin said, sounding distinctly unenthused by the proposition. “Taking the train to Devon tomorrow, and then a bus to the village where her care home is.”

“That sounds...picturesque.”

“Yeah, it’s really...erm...really…” Martin sighed, suddenly and explosively. “It’s a nightmare, actually. Every year since she moved there. Half the time I make the trip and she won’t even see me, and the bus back to Exeter doesn’t run on bank holidays so I’m stuck there until Boxing Day one way or another. But I can’t...it just feels wrong to leave her, you know?”

There was a significant pause.

“Sorry,” Martin added belatedly. “I didn’t mean to...dump.”

“Sounds like you needed it,” Basira said diplomatically.

“What about you, Melanie?” Martin asked loudly, as if she was just coming into the room. “Got any big plans for the holidays?”

“Drinking,” Melanie replied promptly. After a slightly awkward pause, she added, “Well, flying to Greece and then drinking. It’s cheaper in the off-season, and it’s not alcoholism if you’re on holiday, right?”

“Greece!” Basira sounded relieved to have something to talk about besides her co-workers’ emotional disturbances. “That’ll be lovely. Get some sunshine, yeah?”

“Well, I’m not going because I love ouzo,” Melanie said. “Though I could bring you back some, if you want. Sounds like you might need it?”

Martin mumbled some sort of excuse. Basira said, “I’ll think about it. If the aunts find out I drink, they might me too outraged to try to set me up with anyone.”

“If you told them you’re a lesbian, would they be more or less inclined to nag you?” Melanie asked speculatively, but Basira just laughed darkly instead of answering.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

Jon was jarred out of his eavesdropping by the appearance of Peter Lukas on the other side of his desk. Usually he noticed Peter’s comings and goings; whatever power of the Lonely let him slip about unseen by others, it didn’t work particularly well on the Archivist in the Beholding’s place of power. But he’d let himself get distracted, spying on his assistants without their knowledge, violating their trust—

“What exactly are you talking about?” Jon asked, venting some of his irritation at himself towards a more convenient target.

Peter smiled at him benignly. “Well, perhaps not for you lot. But this time of year is quite the smorgasbord for my family, and we don’t even celebrate the holiday.”

“Of course,” Jon muttered after a moment’s thought. “Nothing to make people feel alone like a two-month advertising blitz full of happy families. You’re the worst of all of Dickens’ ghosts combined, except these particular Scrooges never gets to wake up.”

“Exactly.” Peter attempted to perch himself on the corner of Jon’s desk; Jon swatted him with a statement file. “Ahem! It’s not like it’s my fault they’re all depressed and miserable. I’m just enjoying the side effects.”

“And occasionally devouring one or two whole,” Jon added, and Peter merely shrugged, as if to say, _can you blame me?_ “Were you just here to be deeply unpleasant, or did you have something to discuss?”

Peter put a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt, Archivist, really. I can do both!”

Jon gave him the narrow-eyed glare that used to make Martin stutter and drop things.

“Oh, fine,” Peter groused. “I wanted to ask if there was anything you’ll need from me over the holiday. Also, Elias wants you to stop ignoring his calls.”

“I’ll take Elias’s calls when he has something worthwhile to say to me,” Jon told him, and Peter seemed to accept the implied paradox without trouble. “And I should be fine without your assistance until the new year. Enjoy your…” He let his awareness slip again, put in the effort to _know—_ “Yacht, is it? I’m not good with nautical terms.”

“Show off,” Peter said without real rancor. “Not that I should expect anything less, of course, considering. I’d wish you a happy Christmas, but…”

“Happy Christmas, Peter,” Jon said firmly. “Please don’t traumatize any of my assistants on your way out.”

“Oh, no, I promised Martin to stop sneaking up him while you were...indisposed,” Peter said earnestly. “And like I said, it’s not _my_ fault they’re depressed and miserable, even if I do enjoy it thoroughly.”

Jon glared at him, but Peter was already leaving his office without the benefit of an open door. Sadistic bastard. Not that Jon was much better, eating up their secrets, however mundane, but at least he felt _bad_ about it. At least he was still human enough for that.

And if he could snatch one small thing from the maw of Peter and his patron…

It was barely half-three, but it was also the Friday before Christmas, so ... to hell with it. He tidied his desk, and forced himself to shut the tape recorder in a drawer. Then he gathered his coat and bag.

They were each at their desks when he found them, bent over their own tasks. Martin, of course, was the first one to notice him. “Oh, hi, Jon,” he said, with the forced brightness he’d been wearing as armor ever since Jon had returned. “Did you need something?”

“Get your coats,” Jon said crisply. “All of you. We’re going to the pub, my shout.”

The blank incredulity on their faces was … well. Probably he’d earned that.

“I promise I am not joking,” he added, and Melanie closed her mouth sharply. “Consider it your end-of-year bonus, if you like.”

Basira stood up and came toe to toe with him. “Arms out,” she said briskly, and Jon submitted to a pat-down with as much dignity as the process allowed. “He’s not recording.”

That got Melanie to grab her purse. “Well, as long as you’re paying, then.”

He glanced at the others; Martin already had his coat on and halfway buttoned, but Basira still looked skeptical. “What brought this on?” she asked. “Sudden surge of holiday cheer?”

Jon found he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Something like that,” he said. Then, in the interest of transparency, he added, “And...appreciation, for, erm. For the three of you. This year has been _—_ ”

“Oh, dear god, please don’t make this weird,” Melanie moaned, cutting him off. “Not until you’ve bought me a lot more alcohol.”

Basira cuffed her on the shoulder. “You’re not on holiday yet. Control yourself.”

“No more sentiment, then,” Jon said, actually quite relieved. “Now let’s go, before Peter notices.”

It was raining lightly outside. As they trailed towards the least egregiously overpriced pub in Chelsea, Martin fell into step beside Jon. “So...erm...I suppose you don’t have any plans for...er...”

“You can say ‘Christmas,’ Martin,” Jon assured him. “I won’t burst into flames.”

Martin’s face colored, but he didn’t try to deny he’d been thinking it. “Just because, well, you’ve never had plans before now. Have you?”

Jon shook his head, thinking briefly of choices and unintended consequences. “Just work. As usual.”

“...will you, er, need any help?”

Jon glanced at him from the corner of his eye, but Martin was doing quite an admirable stone face, by his usual standards. And Jon was not quite so far gone as to be able to read minds. “I wouldn’t ask you to give up your holiday,” he said carefully, “but...I also wouldn’t mind the company..”

Martin nodded. “Right. Okay. Of course. I mean. Erm.” He started patting down the pockets of his coat in the universal gesture of where-is-my-phone. “I ... I’ll catch up? I think...I need to make a call.”

Jon smothered a selfish little smile, because it wasn’t the sort of thing he should really take pleasure in—and yet. And yet. He just jogged to catch up with Basira and Melanie, who were waiting for them under the awning of the pub.


End file.
